#MomLife: Yom Kippur Edition

Zusha and the Big Fish!

Now that we're well stuffed with the gluten-free lasagna I made, it's time to start shutting things down, bathing everyone, and getting ready to shut down for the most important day on the Jewish calendar. I have to mention that the lasagna was actually made for Shabbat lunch, but our plata didn't turn on, so we had to have challah, lox, and cream cheese instead, so I decided to heat it up for our erev Yom Kippur meal. Why? Well, the traditional pre-Yom Kippur meal includes kreplach, which are little meat-stuffed dumplings. The idea behind them is that the meat is "hidden," and it comes from this verse in Isaiah 1:18:

“Come, let us reach an understanding, —says the LORD. Be your sins like crimson, They can turn snow-white; Be they red as dyed wool, They can become like fleece.”

Meat = red. White = the pasta. Boom! Except that we don't do meat, but the spinach and sun-dried tomatoes were hidden between layers of pasta. It works! IT WORKS!

Anyway. Am I ready? No. Does it matter? No. At least, that's what I keep telling myself. But you know me. I know me. It does matter, but I'm trying really hard to not let it matter.

Yom Kippur is hard. Neither Mr. T nor I fast well, and we've got three small kids who need us to be at our very best all. day. long. So, I'm trying to pull some understanding and forgiveness to myself based on this article on Chabad.org:

Let go of expectations for how a “real” Yom Kippur should look like. There are many ways to honor and celebrate Yom Kippur, and each year will be different, depending on the ages and needs of your children, as well as your own physical and emotional capabilities. Intense prayer may be out of the question for you, but you will still be experiencing Yom Kippur to its fullest.
The sages tell us that on Yom Kippur, itzumo shel yom mechaper—the essence of the day atones for us. Regardless of our prayers, meditation or hard work, Yom Kippur itself reveals that part of us that is always connected to G‑d, the part that doesn’t need to do anything or be anything other than what it is. This is our etzem, our essence.
Spending the day caring for your children is no less G‑dly than spending it in the synagogue. Wherever you are, you are at one with G‑d.

So, here I am, pounding Little Secrets and water instead of, well, anything else. My husband is bathing the kids, I put the baby down for bed, and now I'm anticipating what 5779 holds for me and whether I can honestly and truly commit to Daf Yomi while also blogging every day. 

It's all about carving time out, having a schedule, prioritizing. Things I'd like to prioritize better? My husband, my kids, my self-care, my learning, my career growth, my happiness, my health. It's about time that I put everything in perspective and start prioritizing what matters. And the nice thing? I think my job gives me that space. I just have to take advantage of it and stop treating every work assignment like it's the end of the world. 

Anyway, candle lighting is coming soon, and it's time to sip the last of my water and refocus myself for Yom Kippur. To really think about who I am, to celebrate these moments where we are closest to HaShem. 

“For on this day He will forgive you, to purify you, that you be cleansed from all your sins before G‑d" (Leviticus 16:30).

As I plead for forgiveness, I also ask for strength to be inscribed in the book of life in the year to come. 

I'm wishing one and all a g'mar chatimah tovah -- may you be inscribed in the book of life and have a meaningful fast. Catch you on the other side!

On Elul and Being Present on Shabbat

Ah, Elul. That big, beautiful month full of reflection on the Jewish (Hebrew) calendar. It's the month leading up to the High Holidays of Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur and Simchat Torah and Sukkot. It's one of my most favorite times of year because it means that fall is coming, my birthday is coming, and that winter is right around the corner and that boots, scarves, and jackets are soon a necessity.

It also means October is going to be a mess of time off from work, multiple days in a row without the ability to use technology, no daycare, and general chaos. But, you know what, that's okay.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I've really, truly, honestly embraced Shabbat and days of rest.

You see, I'm a highly anxious workaholic (no, who, me!?). Shabbat was one of the hardest things to accept as I became religious all those years ago, because I've always been a hyper plugged in person. It's what I do professionally, and it's how I connect with friends near and far, not to mention family, too.

But recently, I've started going to shul (synagogue) on Shabbat again, after a good probably nine months of skipping Saturdays at home so I could sleep while Mr. T and Asher were out of the house. Once baby showed up, I slept in, woke up, fed the baby, read trashy magazines, and so on. But when Mr. T was out of town a few weeks in Israel for iBoy's bar mitzvah, I knew I couldn't have Asher in the house for hours on end lest we both go bananas. So I hauled myself out of the house and we went to synagogue.

Now, wearing a sort-of sleeping newborn and trying to daven (pray) with focus is next to impossible. So I spent most of the morning (roughly 9 a.m. until 12:30 p.m.) in the baby group, where you can drop your little ones off starting at the age of six months (they have programming up through the age of teenagers). They sing songs and there are toys and the other babies like to see my baby, so it's a win-win because I get to talk to the adults in the room and we're out of the house.

When Mr. T came back, I kept going. The baby doesn't sleep so late in the morning anymore, and it's good to get out and see people, right?

During those few weeks where it was just me and the kids, I found myself doing a lot of observing. I watched people coming and going from shul, I watched the kids outside playing with their teenage teachers in groups, I watched the entire theater of Shabbat happening around me. And it was beautiful.

The thing about Shabbat is that, when you're really inside it, when you're really present and experiencing it, the anxiety of the rest of the week really does disappear. Recently I've found myself just enjoying being present from sundown to sundown. I'm not rushed to turn my phone back on, and that moment when I do turn my phone back on I feel a huge pang of regret and sadness. Because I've noticed that when Shabbat ends, after we make havdalah to separate the sacred from the profane, my fingers and face are glued to the damnable little device.

Yes, it's my job to be digital 24/6, but what does that mean? What is it costing me?

As Asher gets older, he's noticing how connected I am more. He'll often say my name repeatedly to get my attention, and even when I respond, it's the device he wants me to put down. Like, literally set down. He needs my attention. And if he's doing something cute, he often isn't interested in it being filmed or captured in a picture. He just wants me to be present.

On Shabbat, last week, we all stayed home because we had a hand-foot-mouth scare (which turned out to be not what he had, but rather just teething and a cold). We played, we engaged, we were present. We went to the playground, we enjoyed the sunshine and make believe. We sang and danced. We enjoyed each other.

I was so present and completely wrapped up in my family that I said to Mr. T: "Days like this make me think I could have a third, easily, without any second thoughts." (Or something to that affect.) It was just such a blissful day.

Then, of course, the next day, Mr. T was tired, the baby was half awake next to me in bed, and Asher was calling, "Mommy. Tatty. Mommy. Tatty." I zipped upstairs to mute the monkey only to find out he'd really, really, really wet the bed hardcore. As I pulled off all the sheets and pulled out the stuffed animals and toys and books I realized that I was good with where I was.

Shabbat really does something beautiful for me. I don't know how people function without a single day to be disconnected from the rest of the world and to really be present with those closest to you. No TV, no phones, no devices, no distractions.

All of this is to say, I guess, that I'm glad that I'm at this point in my life. It took having two kids to really learn to appreciate Shabbat, and now, every week, I long for Shabbat and lament its leaving. I've even started not looking at my phone on Saturday night to prolong a sense of peace and presence just a little bit longer. It makes all the difference in the world.

So, I'm curious: How do you do it? How do you connect, how do you really connect and be present in your own life? 

10Q Reflections: Part I

It's that time of year again, the time when the email arrives: Your 10Q are ready!

You log in, look at five years worth of responses to a simple set of 10 questions about the year. Your hopes, your dreams, your failings, your triumphs. It's all typed up and locked away year after year after the High Holidays. Five years. I recently posted about how much my life is not where I expected it to be. But that's looking at the long haul of experiences.

Clicking on each year and reading my life in a vacuum, what I predicted for the coming year, what I'd experienced in the past year, I realize how short-sighted I live my life. In a way, that's good. Living in the moment, experiencing life on life's terms. I never dream too big, I never dream too far away. I've always been a realist.

But this one, this one from last year's 10Q is big.

Here's the thing. When I was filling out my 10Q last year, I didn't know that Mr. T was going to be gone for a shocking nine months. I didn't know how much things would speed up. I didn't know how much I would need that connection in order to thrive and just survive.

I suppose I achieved what I was missing -- sort of. I spent a lot of time this past year praying and talking to G-d. A lot of time crying, pleading, begging, and reflecting. But I still don't completely and utterly feel like the deeply spiritual person I was several years ago after my divorce and moving to Israel. Life's incredibly busy and engaging with that self isn't as easy as I wish it were.

But that's the ultimate battle with being a Torah-observant Jew. It's so easy to go through the motions day in and day out. Say a blessing, eat an apple. Go to the bathroom, say a blessing. Get up, cover your hair, observe the laws of modesty. Go to the mikvah, speak Hebrew with your child. Write an article on the origins and meaning of the siddur (Jewish prayer book).

What's often missing is the feels. Yes, that's a popular bit of internet lingo at the moment, but the feels are what I've always battled with when it comes to taking my Judaism personally. I'm a cerebral person. I first came to Judaism through the textbook in college. I dove in to a master's degree in Judaic studies with the mind of an academic. I'm no Orthprax, because G-d, whether I spend hours in hitbodedut or not, is very central to my existence and understanding of the world.

And the funny thing is, the whole of modern Judaism is based on the deeply academic pursuits of the great rabbis, battling and arguing over meaning, substance, observance. But, for some reason, when I think of the rabbis of the Talmud and the great sages of the Medieval period and the great thinkers of modern Judaism, all I can think is, "Here are some super spiritual people, right?"

Who knows. My husband is a Hasid through and through. He's got the feels oozing out his ears and dances around the synagogue on Shabbat and has a joy in his soul that is something I envy. I wouldn't say I'm a mitnaged, the classic thought-based opponents of the Hasidim, as I don't oppose Hasidic thought and I find a lot of it incredibly inspiring and personally valuable, but my natural state is more that of the classic mitnaged than Hasid.

I suppose, then, Mr. T and I are creating a balance in a way. I learn from him, he learns from me, and hopefully, maybe, I can find the balance of spiritual seeker and passionate thinker and not feel so far, so rote in my Judaism.

Sign up for your 10Q.

Bonus: I really need to get back to 2013 and take my own advice.

Don't sweat the small stuff -- and it's all small stuff. You have an amazing husband, wonderful friends, and this life is a gift.

Elul: Accepting That I'm Where I'm Supposed to Be

Asher conquers a Colorado peach at the Farmers Market

while mommy is busy working in California. 

[Thanks to Tatty for the picture, of course.] 

Lately, and maybe because it's the Hebrew month of Elul and the High Holidays of Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur are right around the corner, I've been thinking about where I am in life. In a few short weeks, the books of life and death will be written and sealed, so it's a heavy time.

After spending three days out in California with my (amazingly awesome, there are no words for them) coworkers in Mountain View, walking past the offices of Apple and LinkedIn and being a few doors down from Google ... man, I was fan girling in a serious way. I'm finally in the industry of my dreams. I mean, I've been working in social media for the better part of my adult life and consider myself an expert in many things (content, audience cultivation, Facebook ads, social campaigns, social virality). But for the first time in my life, I'm able to travel to the hub of the startup world, launch a brand digitally from scratch, and watch it grow, soar, succeed.

This is the career changer, the life changer. And being in California with my head down and hanging out with my coworkers as they troubleshoot and I troubleshoot and we all make amazing things happen, I was in the thick of it and it felt right.

On the other hand, my husband and son were back in Colorado, so I was able to wake up at 7 a.m., start working right away and pull a full day, not finishing up until 5:30 or 6 p.m. and feel completely and utterly accomplished. It was amazing. I could do it every day of my life and feel fulfilled. I think.

Once upon a time, I envisioned my life differently. I was going to live in NYC and work at The New York Times, and when I graduated college and ended up at The Washington Post, I was well on my way to realizing that dream -- maybe. But I was depressed and unhappy. The hours were terrible, my neshama wasn't at peace, there were many things missing. So the course of my life changed forever when I left Washington DC in early 2007. Since then, every year has been a patchwork.

Five years ago, I was playing the happy housewife. Newly married, newly moved to Teaneck, I was attempting to keep up with the Schwartzes, buying new dishes and servers and attempting to fit into the Shabbat hosting world. Things weren't good, but they were manageable.

Four years ago, I was on the verge of divorcing my first husband. I was severely depressed, medicated, and desperate for a change. On the outside, I put on the ultimate show. On the inside, I was dying.

Three years ago, I was on the verge of making aliyah (moving to Israel), where I anticipated big life changes, finding a new mate, having children finally, fulfilling the dream of Eretz Yisrael.

Two years ago, I was a newlywed and several months pregnant. I was baffled at how I'd gotten to where I was, but elated at the challenge, despite being broke, mostly jobless, and unsure of what was in store for me and my new family.

One year ago, life was unhappy again. The adjustment back to the U.S. had been incredibly hard on everyone and things weren't going well. Asher was a happy, bouncy baby, but there was a lot going on and, little did I know, I was about to lose my job and my husband -- all on my birthday.

And today? Well, today my husband is back. He's working full time at two different jobs (construction/house flipping + the kosher pizza place while the owner receives treatment for cancer), so we see him on Shabbat and for a few hours in the middle of the day. I'm working, making sure the house runs smoothly, the laundry gets done, food gets on the table, and making sure Asher gets to daycare so all of those things can happen smoothly.

It's not perfect, but it's where we are, and despite the freedom I have when I'm knee-deep in the startup world in Mountain View, it's nice to come home to toys all over the floor and a tiny person who says, "Mommy, Mommy!"

I recently asked my Facebook friends if they were where they thought they'd be in life, and without an official count, I'd say 95% of the respondents said "no." I wasn't surprised.

Am I where I thought I'd be? Definitely not. Is it where I want to be? I'm still figuring that one out. But the truth is, for all of us, we're exactly where we're supposed to be. Ultimately, it's all about acceptance, and if we can accept and appreciate where we are, then it will always be where we want to be.

Shanah Tovah!

Although we're living in galut (exile, or better yet, the U.S. and not Israel), there is something special about this place during the holidays. Not living in Los Angeles or Chicago or New York or another city with a giant Jewish community means that the chances of running into a Jew, you would think, are slim.

Being in Denver this time of year, as Rosh HaShanah is on our doorstep, greetings and connections have popped up in the most unusual of places.

I stopped into Target this morning to spend a gift card that my in-laws sent me early for my birthday (yipes, turning 31 on the 30th) and heard greetings of "Shanah Tovah!" coming from nowhere in particular (seriously, I looked, I didn't see any Jews, I just heard the voices ... am I nuts?). Walking to the car in the parking lot after my migraine-fueled adventure into yellow cardigan purchasing, I saw a very tall, tanned blonde piling out of a minivan full of men.

As she approached our car, she took one look at our Na Nach sticker, one look at me (tichel wearing) and shouted "Shanah Tovah!" A bit startled, I responded in kind.

A bit later, while Ash and I did our final run out for groceries (seriously, does holiday shopping ever end?) at Trader Joe's (where everything is now pumpkin spiced, including the pumpkin seeds), the girl at the next check counter popped over to help bag our groceries.

Hannah, with a hamsa and star of David around her neck, wished us a "Shanah Tovah!" and proceeded to explain how she was working during the holiday. She did, however, make sure to pick up apples, honey, and a pomegranate. Although it bummed me out that she has to work instead of enjoy the holiday in all its joy and splendor, I understand where she's coming from.

I've always waffled between being Jewish being easier/harder outside of Israel, where being Jewish is a breeze, it's a given, it's carefree. In the U.S. you have to really try hard to find the little Jewish sparks here and there, especially when you don't live in a community like Teaneck, New Jersey.

And when you do find those little connections, it's beautiful and reminds me that the Jewish people are here, there, and everywhere -- in their own way and their own style.

Shanah Tovah everyone!

Yom Kippur in Galut

I had an incredibly emotional Yom Kippur, and for the first time in many years I was able to power through a migraine and fully fast without drinking anything. There was something in the air this year about Yom Kippur ... something fulfilling and powerful. Something that moved me to tears during the confessions or vidui.

We have willfully sinned.

That one got me every time. Thinking back on the past year and knowing that I made choices that were ones of sin, and yet acted anyway, well, that smacked me in the gut and brought tears to my eyes. I think that for the first time the Yom Kippur service held a deep and painful personal meaning for me, and it stretched back beyond last year into my failed marriage. 

I was asked to speak during Kol Nidrei with Minyan Na'aleh for roughly five minutes on "new beginnings" because of my impending aliyah. I gladly accepted -- to be asked meant so much to me. I toiled over what to say for a long time, and I ended up turning to my rav to hash out exactly how to connect Yom Kippur with aliyah with new beginnings with my ever-changing experience. The result, I think, had a more powerful impact than I could have known. I won't repost the text here, mostly because it's that personal. Yes, I stood in front of a crowd of largely strangers, but for some reason it made sense. The message? Choices. I spent three years of my life devoid of choices. Aliyah is me breaking out with the ultimate choice. 

I managed to stand throughout the entirety of Neilah, despite fatigue, a headache, and the fact that I was completely freezing. The sanctuary was frigid, and I was dressed for a typical Colorado summer day. Near the end of the service, when the shofar was blown and a burst of adrenaline had the men dancing around the bimah singing "L'shanah ha'ba'ah b'Yerushalyim!" (next year in Jerusalem), I realized that the words were so apt. So personal.

As Yom Kippur ended and I grabbed some Orange Juice and headed home, I realized that I'm so close to Israel. I'm mere weeks away. I just have to power through the eight days of Sukkot and Simchat Torah and Shemini Atzeret and then ... I'm off.

Sell my car. Sell my bed. Pack my clothes and books. And say goodbye to Colorado and hello to the choice of a lifetime. 

The Sweetness is Coming

Photo taken on Birthright circa 2008 on Machane Yehuda in Jerusalem. 

The Repetition of History & Tisha b'Av

Tisha b'Av is coming -- can you feel it? I can. I can't stop thinking about it. It seems like such an obnoxious holiday, coming right in the midst of summertime, laying its laws upon us and expecting us to start feeling something, to start preparing for the High Holidays, to repent.

“There are others days on which all Israel fasts because of the tragedies that occurred on these dates. This is in order to move the hearts of the people and to open the road to repentance. And this is a memorial to our evil actions and the actions of our ancestors that were like our current behaviors to the point that these behaviors have brought these sorrows upon us and our ancestors. Through the recollection of these matters we will repent as it says: And they will confess their iniquities and the iniquities of their ancestors.” (Maimonides, Mishne Torah, Laws of Fasts 5:1)

And so Tisha b'Av is the culmination of all of these fast days. Rambam is saying, in a nutshell, that if we do not learn from our history, we are doomed to repeat it. Because we continue to observe these fasts, it seems that we still have not learned from history, from our ancestors. 

When will we be at peace with our history and our actions? When will we stop rinsing and repeating past misdeeds? What does it take to achieve that space of mind and place of body?

A popular quote that has been attributed to Albert Einstein and Benjamin Franklin but yet cannot be verified can offer insight, I think.

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

Let's pull ourselves out of the straight jacket already. Mashiach is expecting it of us, we ought to expect it of ourselves. 

An Unanticipated Start to Renewal

This week, we begin the High Holidays of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, holidays that are juxtaposed with a bittersweet sensation of happiness and reality. The book of life, the book of death. At this time every year, I beg for new beginnings, for insight, for clarity, and it's an appropriate time of year because it's also the season of my birthday, which happens to be Rosh Hashanah on the Hebrew calendar and September 30 on the Gregorian calendar. I'd really wanted to do something jazzy like Kate did for her birthday, where she listed tons of awesome facts -- known and unknown -- about her from the most minute to the deep and meaningful. Had I written that post a month ago when she posted her's, I probably would go ahead and post it anyway, but I can't put myself in a mindset of cataloging and celebrating these 28 years of life that I've been given. But I'm distracted.

Ever since I was a kid, I'd always wanted to be married by 27. I'm not sure why, but it was some kind of goal that I could work for and 27 seemed like enough time to sow my wild oats and then settle into a life of marriage, have kids and be someone's wife. So I hit that goal, with four months to spare.

What I never anticipated, however, was being divorced by 28. I also never anticipated moving back to Denver -- where I lived six years ago for a summer at The Denver Post -- alone.

This blog has watched me on a unique journey into and through Judaism as a convert, and now, I suppose, it will document what it means to be a single, converted, divorced Orthodox Jewish woman pushing 30 living in the Rocky Mountain state.

Why Denver? Well, I didn't have this blog back in 2005, but if I did, you would have heard me sing the praises of Colorado as the healthiest place on earth. The moment my wheels hit Colorado, I felt the need to eat healthy, to be healthy, to feel healthy. I went through a heartbreak there, but it didn't smack me in the face like it did elsewhere, because I was mentally and emotionally healthy. I was able to cope and move on. When I lived in Denver, I went running and walking, I ate fresh vegetables and maintained a mostly vegetarian diet, I explored the state, I got out. I did things. I was happy, I was healthy, I was positive about my future and confident in who I was. Everyone keeps telling me Denver's a horrible choice because there are no single frum folk there. To that, friends, I say, "I'm not interested in dating at the moment. Seriously?"

Why not Israel? Divorce is a big enough shock to my system right now. I need a change, so I'm starting small with a move to Denver where I can regroup, clear my head, and find some inner peace. The balagan of Israel is too much for the tender state of me right now, so stay patient. I haven't ruled it out. After all, the world is my oyster at this point.

What happened? As much as I know y'all want to ask this question, and as much as I want to answer it, this blog isn't the place for it. Evan (aka Tuvia) and I are divorcing amicably after spending most of our marriage trying to make things click into place. Not everyone works out in the way that you think or hope they will, and that's the crapshoot of life, folks. I was at an all-time emotional low when the decision was made, and since then -- a mere couple of weeks -- I've already started to feel like there's a silver lining in this. Gam zu l'tovah. (Even in this there is good.) Just know that Evan and I gave it all we had, and the marriage didn't work out.

What now? Well, I'm on the hunt for a Denver job. So if you know someone, let me know. I've applied for a few, and one responded that I'm overqualified, so I'm afraid that this is going to be a constant refrain that will frustrate the bejeezus out of me. As for school, it's on hold for now with the option to return in the spring, but I'm not sure what's going to happen there. I think in the past year, I outgrew what I thought the program could provide me. I want to continue learning, so maybe I'll hop off to Israel to seminary or something. Seriously, world = oyster. But right now, I really need to find work in Colorado -- so help a Jewess out!

I suppose I have a lot to think about, and you're all along for the ride. Why I chose to uncover after the divorce, what the Denver community is like, and, most importantly, what do I want out of life?

Thus, the High Holidays -- a time for renewal -- couldn't have come at a better time. Or maybe HaShem had this all in the books. After all, everything happened so quickly, the move, the divorce, everything. I felt almost forced to be in Denver by the High Holidays, and it has happened. My 10Q email arrived the day of my get and reminded me of what I foresaw in 5771, and it was foreboding in a way. What is HaShem trying to say to me? And what does it all mean?

Stay tuned, folks. It's going to be an interesting 5772.

Obligatory Christmas Post No. 1

Last year, I blogged about being a Secular Christmas Dropout. Here's a chunk from that post:

I imagine if I lived in Israel, the feelings of Christmas would fade over time, and I probably wouldn't even long for the lazy days of mom's cookies and bulk gifts and cheesy, old Christmas ornaments. Did I mention the tree? My mom loves her tree -- it was her prized possession, always. Every year she struggled to get us to help her put it up, and begrudgingly we would always help her. Now? Mom doesn't have anyone to help her. She managed to get my little brother to help this year (with the help of his girlfriend). She sent me a photo of one of the ornaments, a very old one that she has put on the tree since the 1980s. It's a mirrored one, much like all of her early ones (the entire tree is white/silver with a few hints of color here and there), and her comment with it was "Did you know that one of the mirrors was a six pointed star....we must have know way back then that it would represent you :)." My mom, as always, has brilliant insight into these things.

I don't know if my mom read the post, and I'll have to ask her, but the ornament in the photo? I now have it in my possession! My mom sent it to me (among a bunch of other awesome gifts like a Pampered Chef bar pan, Mad Gab, some cute kitchen towels from my Grandma in Branson, MO, and another cute gift that I'll share once my mom sends me the corresponding picture).

Once again, she struggled to get the tree up, but she said it's up now and only a few ornaments broke this year. My mom's tree is beautiful in white and silver. It was always one of my favorite things about the holiday season. We'd sit around the floor in the living room sorting the tree branches by color coating on their ends, and then separate the branches (yes, it was fake) and then put the tree together. My hands always got itchy because whatever the fake tree was treated with just made my hands scratch. This year, my parents will be spending time with my older brother and his preggo (with twins!) wife, as well as my little brother Joe and his girlfriend, both who are home form South Carolina (where they're at school) for the holidays.

Do I wish I were there?

Of course I do. Would it be weird? Without a doubt. Would I deal with it? You betcha. Why? Because -- no matter who you are -- it's always important to remember and cherish where you came from. It makes who you are now all the more valuable, because it's a narrative that you must understand to grow as a person. (I'd post photos of my family, but, well, I don't know how my mom and brothers feel about the face time on my blog.)

So, to my readers celebrating Christmas, Merry Christmas to you. And to all my Yidden, Good Shabbos! And to all my other friends? Happy Winter Solstice and be well.

Yom Kippur Cometh!

My fondest memory of Yom Kippur -- if you can have a "fond" YK memory -- is from my Reform shul in Nebraska one year long ago. Or not so long ago. But the thing is that our sanctuary was located on the main floor of the shul and the social hall and kitchen were downstairs. During the afternoon YK services, people would begin preparing the goods for our break-the-fast meal. Now, you can imagine what this was like. We'd spend probably two to three hours, the hardest of a fast day, smelling the wafting scents of delicious goodies up the stairwell from the kitchen. It was unbelievable. Difficult. And, inevitably, very amusing to us.

Yom Kippur, for me, is tough. I'm not a good faster, I get dehydrated easy, and migraines come at me the moment I wake up on the morning of a fast. But Yom Kippur, to me, is something worth powering through. It's necessary, it's the ultimate day of purpose. The service is long, soul-crushing, perhaps, but ultimately, there is something in the day for everyone. Even if it is a word, a line that strikes you, something that sings to your soul and moves it from crushing to freeing. They call these the High Holidays, because you're supposed to get high. Not on weed, folks, but on life, HaShem, Judaism, you name it. Get high in your mind, in your soul, in your heart. For me? I need this right now, and you should, too. This day comes once a year, so you have to make it right for you.

And, while you're getting your Yom Kippur thoughts on, please check out this amazing video "Yom Kippur: Overboard (Jonah's Song)." Note: This song has a very "Christian Rock" feel to it, but the animation and message are perfect.




An easy fast to you all, and a g'mar chatima tovah! Check in after Shabbos for Haveil Havalim, the newest edition, here on the blog!

It's Art, It's Renewal: Jewels of Elul

This post is part of Jewels of Elul, which celebrates the Jewish tradition to dedicate the 29 days of the month of Elul to growth and discovery in preparation for the coming high holy days. This year the program is benefiting Beit T'shuvah, a residential addiction treatment center in Los Angeles. You can subscribe on Jewels of Elul to receive inspirational reflections from public figures each day of the month. You don’t have to be on the blog tour to write a blog post on “The Art of Beginning... Again.” We invite everyone to post this month (August 11th - September 8th) with Jewels of Elul to grow and learn.


It's Day 3 of Elul, Do You Know Where Your Apples & Honey Are?

The inspiration for this post, "The Art of Beginning ... Again," gives me a very literalist punch, and I hate being a literalist (don't tell the rabbis), but I can't help it; art has always been the gas in the automobile of life for me (nice, eh?). When I think about art, it's a frenzied, frenetic examination of emotions and thoughts splattered together onto one ginormous canvas. The canvas, for some, is literally a canvas. For others its a wall or a newsprint page or a spiral-bound notebook. When I was a kid, I dreamed of being an artist, the traditional kind with pencils and charcoal and clean white sheets of paper filled with images of people and plants and animals and life. I figured out in high school that that dream wasn't necessarily realistic because my emotions had started to plant their feet in the written word. In college, still, I found words the most beautiful art out there, and I began, again, in the form of spoken word -- slam poetry. I discovered a power in words I'd never known before, and then slowly they seeped back onto the page in the form of this blog. My new canvas. The art, then, is life, and the canvas, is this blog. Every time I sit to write a new blog post, it's as if I'm planning the next great masterpiece, the work that will catch every reader's heart and pull. My thoughts, frenzied and frenetic still, find their way onto new avenues each day, with each post, in the form of Judaism. Jewish thought. Israel. Judaism in academia. Jewish food, observance, quirks. The art is ... beautiful.

I've discovered that this art of mine allows me to begin again each and every day, or sometimes twice a week, or sometimes less often -- life, you know, gets in the way of art. But I consider myself blessed. I don't have to wait until Elul each year to reflect and learn from my every-step in life. Like many bloggers in this series, I went back and looked at all of my past Elul posts over the four years of this blog, and the funny thing is that I really get into Elul. Although, shouldn't I? I've had more beginnings and start-agains in my life than I can count. More schools and homes and addresses and cities and friends and religious awakenings than can easily be enumerated here. And, of course, there's the two conversions I pushed myself through, which are ultimate steps in teshuvah (repentance, or returning) that only begin when steps are taken out of the mikvah. I look at every day as a chance for renewal, reevaluation, a reconsideration of who I am and where I'm going, based largely on where I've been, who I've touched, and how I've moved others to move myself.

This blog, for me, makes that happen. You, the readers, who constantly push and question and -- yes, sometimes -- infuriate me, make considering me possible. And, of course, there's always the text in my banner (שמע יי קולי אקרא וחנני וענני) that comes from Psalm 27, which Jews the world-over read every morning of Elul, that translates very roughly (and colloquially) as "Hey, G-d, I'm calling out, so be gracious to me, hear me, answer me!" Elul, then, is like one big, ginormous (man I love that word) experience of renewal and questioning, turning toward G-d and G-d turning toward us. It's like the last chance to ask yourself where you're going and who you are and what you want to be in the new year.

But if there's one thing I've learned about renewal and fresh starts, about beginning again, it's that it isn't a once-a-year occurrence. At least, it shouldn't be. Jews are blessed with the big holiday- and reflection-filled months of Elul and Tishrei where we ask for forgiveness, reflect on ourselves and our pasts and future, and ultimately get written into that big book of life or death that G-d keeps tugged away (surely) in his jeans pocket. And it's important to artfully and carefully extend ourselves, especially during Elul. But every day, every word that escapes our mouths, every step we take, every conversation we have, they're all chances for renewal and fresh starts. It's never not a good time to consider who you are, where you've been, and how you're going to move forward.

Happy renewal, folks. Use your own art as a form of exploration and expression, and let me know how it turns out in 5771.

Also: If you're interested in reading a few of my Elul blog posts, click on the year and you'll be transported to Chaviva of Years Gone By! 2009 AND 2006

Tisha B'Av Cometh!

Jews the blog-o-sphere over are blogging about the impending fast of Tisha B'Av (literally, 9th of Av) that begins tonight and lasts for 25 hours through tomorrow evening. We eat a big meal tonight, followed by a hard boiled egg dipped in ashes, and then we begin our fast. We go to shul, we hear the reading of Lamentations, and we spend the day avoiding work, not wearing leather shoes, sitting low to the ground, and reflecting on the day in the Jewish calendar that seems to swallow up all the of the bad things that happen to us.

Four years ago, I wrote about my experience fasting on Tisha B'Av and my frustration with one Jews approach to Tisha B'Av for Secular Jews. Three years ago, I wrote about my frustration with the sentiment that on this day we "mourn for a life we no longer want." Two years ago, I wrote about how I felt distant from Tisha B'Av, as if I were just going through the motions.

Last year, of course, I was in Middlebury, Vermont, attempting to deal with the whole "kosher catfish" situation and touring the "kosher" kitchen on Tisha B'Av while attempting to stay sane amid classes without air conditioning in the steamy and humid Vermont heat. I was, in a word, miserable. I also was feeling pretty distant, again, from Tisha B'Av, focused, instead, on my exhaustion and the heat.

What was I doing prior to four years ago? I'm not sure. I can't remember whether my Reform experience back in Nebraska necessitated me fasting, and from what I can tell about my writings of four years ago, I'm guessing that's a big "no" on fasting and/or seeing any significance in Tisha B'Av as an active and important day in the Jewish calendar.

So what does this year mean for me? I'm not sure. I'm all the wiser, much busier, and not looking forward to fasting. As I get older, I find my body less and less accepting of fast days. I will, however, have the option of studying the necessary texts related to the day.

In reality, the one thing that's on my mind is that as soon as Tisha B'Av comes and goes, it's time for the High Holidays. Yikes. Seriously?

What I do want to leave you all with is a question: Can you carry out the mitzvah of being sad and mournful on Tisha B'Av in the manner that all mitzvot are carried out? With happiness?

Coming Full Circle.

Over the weekend, on Sunday to be precise (Yom Rishon), I finished my cycle of holidays as someone studying for a conversion to Orthodox Judaism. Interestingly, it was Simchat Torah – the day in which we take out the Torah, dance around the shul with it, singing songs, and inevitably roll the scroll back to the beginning, to Bereshit. Simchat Torah also is my Hebrew birthday. Technically, that is. I’m not sure if it really counts since I wasn’t born a Jew (although, let it be known, I was born WITH this big Jewish soul of mine). I was born September 30, 1983, and that, folks was Simchat Torah! I keep coming full circle, and Sunday was just another way that I’ve done this. It also means I’ve finished my obligation to fulfill a complete cycle of Jewish holidays in my community. Amen.

I can’t really describe how Sukkot , Shemini Atzeret, and Simchat Torah were. The funny thing about being observant is that I can’t use cameras on the holidays. Now, I’m a big picture-taker. I like to capture the beautiful and special moments in my life. I wish I could have captured so many small moments. Small things.

For example, it rained here last Saturday, a lot. The rabbi discussed how we aren’t obligated to eat in the sukkah if it’s raining cats and dogs, so we resigned ourselves to NOT eating in the sukkah. But for dinner that night, before we entered the second day of Sukkot, we grabbed the challah, ran out into the sukkah – the whole family, the kids, the guests, everyone – to say a blessing in the sukkah. Someone even brought out the green stuff (parsley, garlic, olive oil) for dipping!

Or take the erev Simchat Torah, on Saturday, when I held the Torah, dancing around, women in a circle around me, hopping and smiling and laughing, clapping and singing. That thing was heavy. The men were doing the same dances, the same songs, just on the other side of the bimah, which served as our mechitzah. The joint was jumping, and the musical musings of Harmonia were keeping us all on our toes. We then headed outside for the second to last hakafot, it was dark and cool, and the entire congregation was outside singing and dancing. There was a busload of people unloading at the church across the street, probably looking at us like we were absolutely off our rockers. But we danced on the cool, damp grass and the teenagers kept the songs loud and vibrant. I had started to feel pains in my knees (as was expected, since they sort of lack cartilage) and I walked away, leaning against one of the pillars by the entrance. I started to cry, just a little bit. It was the most beautiful site – the community, dancing with Torot, singing loudly, laughing, joking. It was a moment of complete bliss, a true wedding of Israel and the word of G-d in the Torah. But then I got a little lightheaded and had to sit down.

I wish I could have captured those moments. Click. Snap. Perfection.

There was, of course, the sukkah hop last Sunday. It was geared toward the kids, but plenty of adults carried on with the kids. We walked from sukkah to sukkah to sukkah, hopping along to five in the neighborhood that were nothing alike. The kids, having arrived at the fourth sukkah, complained that the goods being offered – grapes and nuts – weren’t “cool.” I assured them that there were plenty of goods at the next location and boy were they stoked. They were greeted with cookies, twizzlers, and every other sweet snack known to man.

On the note of sweets, I’m intrigued by the massive quantities of sweets that flooded the shul during Simchat Torah. M&Ms, Snickers, Nilla Wafers … the sugar high these kids (and some adults) must have been on definitely fueled the dancing. The sticky mess on the floor reminded me of movie theaters and I definitely wish I could have snapped a photo of the little girl I was holding, as she gnawed away at a lollipop (got to save her from swallowing something badly and choking, blech).

There was also the rabbi, dancing with the young guys, and his wife, whose energy I can only dream of, leading dancing with the women.

It was interesting. It was intense. It was unlike anything else I’ve ever experienced. Never before did I eat in the sukkah, never before did I dance with the Torah, never before did I watch a group of women reading from the sefer Torah privately with a dozen other women, never before did I experience Simchat Torah. The past two weeks were new to me, fresh, and beautiful. It was as if the entire community came alive. After all of the holidays, all of the time in synagogue, all of the busy houses and guests, and in those moments everyone was dancing and singing – alive!

Of course, now we’re all exhausted, trying to recover from the holidays. They were long, they were busy, but they were more than worth it. After all, we reaffirmed everything when it comes to being Jewish. It’s that starting point where we’re all anew. We’ll sleep a lot, relish in not having another major holiday until Pesach, and swear to ourselves that we won’t eat as much in the coming Shabboses.

Snapshots are nice. I think that memories sometimes lose their vibrancy without photographs, but they remain memories nonetheless. And when it comes down to it, it is better to simply keep memories because when they’re just memories, you have to maintain them. You have to constantly remember them, their emotions, their every moment.

When I Call, Will You Answer?

Every day (or almost) I log on to my blog, sit down and write something. I pour my soul out onto the pages of this blog, and for the past three-and-a-half years, and for every day of these past several years I've seen the words written there, below the title of my blog: Sh'ma HaShem, qoli eqra v'chaneni v'aneni. It's funny because I was thinking about it tonight, sitting here, trying to make myself go to sleep, and I realized I'd forgotten what the phrase meant or why I put it there. Let's deconstruct.

Sh'ma HaShem: Hear, G-d

Qoli eqra: My voice cries,

V'chaneni:  Be gracious to me,

V'aneni: Answer me.

Source? Psalms 27:7. We read from this Psalm every day during the month of Elul. I can't believe I'd gotten so lost in the constant of seeing it there that I forgot what it was, where it was from, how important the phrasing and words are.

Now, I went back in the annals of this blog and found a really fascinating post (am I tooting my own horn here?) that I'd written in late August 2006. I was four months out of a Reform conversion, and almost three years into studying Judaism seriously. Even then, at that point, I knew that I wasn't content with a religion of do-do-do without feel-feel-feel. I'm not saying that Reform Judaism was that, but what I was seeing and experiencing was that. I was never that kind of Jew.

A morsel of that post:

I read an article in Tikkun about a guy who was at a bookstore in Tennessee when he ran into a college-age kid who was browsing the small Judaica section in a Border's books. He observed that the kid would pick up a book, flip through it and put it back as if he wasn't really looking. The guy walked over to the collegian and they got to talking about what this kid was looking for -- G-d. The collegian said that G-d was missing from so many books. That G-d is almost devoid of meaning in modern Judaism -- in nearly all followings therein. It got me thinking. The one thing I always detested about "religion" was that it lacked rhyme or reason. Things were done because "that's just what we do." You go to church on Sunday because that's what a good Christian does. You daven three times a day, because that's what a good Jew does. You go to confession, becuase, well, that's what a good Catholic does. The WHY gets lost in translation. That's also what drew me so much to Judaism ... the idea of rabbis across centuries arguing things down to the accidental ink blot on a specific Talmudic trachtate. It is, enlightening and brilliant the amount of discussion and argument that goes into Jewish thought. But it feels like we're missing something. G-d?

When rabbinic and Talmudic Judaism was born, G-d almost disappeared from the Jewish map. It makes you wonder of Adonai is sitting idly by, waiting for Jews everywhere to realize that when they left for Summer Vacation, they left good ole' Adonai sitting on the front porch stoop. Many, many years later, there Adonai sits. Waiting. And what are we doing? Well, I'm not sure.

I know what I'm doing. I'm making a concerted effort to "rekindle the flame" as a popular phrase within the Jewish literary circles quips. I carry G-d with me more than I ever did when I was wrestling with organized religion or my fear of life after death. It's almost an unconcious hum in my head, always keeping me at ease. It's the moments when I'm ill at ease that I seem to cry out, truly and deeply, for strength, reciting the words in the Siddur (page 75) that my rabbi and I discussed so often (cannot rebuild a bridge, but can mend a broken heart). I don't want to be a Jew-by-habit, I'm a Jew-by-Choice, who chooses to create a holy bubble where G-d is more than just four letters in the holy books.

-------

So each morning when I rise, I'll rebuild the figure near the bimah and the shofar, the sound it makes calling us to repentence, to focus on heshbon ha'nefesh -- taking stock of oneself, the soul, reflecting and asking for Divine forgiveness. I'll recite the Psalm, calling Adonai to hear my cries, and I will think of Moshe, ascending the mount for the third time on this day in 2448. I will find my kavannah, and I will keep my beloved close, as my beloved keeps me close.

I think I knew where I was going back then. I knew what I needed, and that hasn't changed. Finding that place, that "holy bubble" that I mention is a constant pursuit of mine. Especially this time of year, when I think about calling out to G-d, asking G-d to hear my voice, to really, truly hear me. To be gracious to me.

And most importantly? To answer.

Rosh Hashanah, I Wish You Were.

Every year, no matter how hard I try, the holidays -- be it Pesach or Rosh Hashanah or something else -- sneak up on me. I start reading and preparing, analyzing the meanings behind fasts and actions and how we daven, far in advance of the holidays. But then, out of nowhere, it is upon us and I'm lost. Lost in the music, the prayers, the people, the noise, the chaos. And this Rosh Hashanah, it wasn't enough that the days were full of all of these things, no, what was added to it was an incident that will probably be one of those "Hey, remember that year where Chavi didn't come to shul and when she did she looked like she'd been knocked out in a boxing match?" kind of memories.

I was staying in a new environment, and despite my best efforts -- bringing my own pillow cases, my own allergen-free pillow, my own pillows and body wash -- somehow I managed to develop a violent allergic reaction to something still unknown to me. It started Saturday morning when I woke up, progressed throughout the day, and culminated around 2 a.m. Sunday morning with a swollen-shut right eye and a left eye on the way there. In the morning, I didn't make it to shul because I'd been up all night wiping my eye and making sure my face didn't swell too much and that -- most importantly -- my throat didn't swell shut. Two people, two amazing friends, even made their way to the apartment to wake me up and check on me (they didn't know the situation). When I finally made it to shul, moments before shofar, I was surrounded by friends dishing medical advice (real doctors!) and handing me antihistamines. The swelling in my eye was down drastically when the service ended a few hours later, and by the evening my eyes were looking better and my skin was bumpy like the peel of an orange and red as can be. Did I mention how itchy it was?

Even today, my face is bumpy, red and blotchy, and I just have to hope that the Prednisone prescribed to me on Monday will really kick it up and make this go away. For someone like me -- with an always-clear complexion -- it's frustrating, disheartening, and depressing. I hate to be vain, but it's more than that. I was embarrassed to be at shul, and later, in class. It's hard to focus when your eyeballs are itchy and your skin is peeling and flaking. It's disgusting and distracting.

I tried so hard to focus on Rosh Hashanah services this weekend. Our chazzan, flown in from Israel for the High Holidays has a voice of honesty, passion, depth. I found myself, despite the state of my face, focusing on his arms as they swung about in song, his shukeling, his devotion to the words, to their meaning. He managed to find a space in his own world to bring his soul toward G-d, and despite all of those people in the sanctuary chattering and reading novels and paying no attention, he was real, he was true. His words were something special. I found that, when my face was itchy and looking horrible, it was easier for me to focus on the chazzan and his words -- more easy, that is, then when I'm normal, healthy, and focusing on the babblers around me.

[As an aside, the dinner I went to Friday night was at the home of some Israeli friends of mine (note: more like family!), and the chazzan was there as well. The chazzan, whose English isn't too stellar, allowed for our hosts and myself to speak a bit of Hebrew, and for Tuvia to nod along joyfully. It was so interesting to be in a household where we bounced back and forth between Hebrew and English, and it was absolutely something special for me because it gave me practice listening, comprehending, and even speaking a bit.]

I did, however, have an interesting conversation with friends about the state of affairs at shul over the High Holidays, and I have to agree with them -- to a point. They were talking about how for some of these people, these twice-a-year Jews, it's a huge step for them to make it to the shul for Rosh Hashanah to hear the shofar (which, in truth, is the major mitzvah of RH anyway). Although they drive me nuts, grate my cheese, and make it all-around more difficult to listen to the chazzan than a swollen melonhead, they're there, and that's something. That they chose to come to an Orthodox shul, where the only sound you'll hear is the purest voice of the chazzan, is also something. There was no production, no lights and choirs and extravagant displays of High Holiday excess. No, it was simple. It was chaos. It was organized, beautiful, chaos. They didn't extend the walls to pack in hundreds of people -- it was men and women smashed into the sanctuary listening to a chazzan with pipes of gold, pipes with a direct connection to the divine. And overall? It was beautiful. It was how I've always pictured the service. Simple, chaotic, perfect.

Interestingly, a friend suggested the following advice: If there are days of the year to skip shul, it's the High Holidays. It gave me a chuckle, but I understand. The pure volume of people there elevated the chattering behind the chazzan's davening. But I keep telling myself -- they were THERE.

I feel as though I was cheated a bit, however. Because of the state of my face. People kept checking up on me, asking if I was okay, making sure I could handle to be in the sanctuary during davening. So? I focused my energies on the shofar, and I was reminded of probably the one thing I miss most about my old Reform shul: the girl who blew the shofar -- she, she had pipes. That long note? She could blast it for minutes. Her skills were incomparable. Unimaginable.

But it's the sound of the shofar that brought everyone to quietude. The rabbi wouldn't let the shofar be blown until the entire crowd was silent. Children came running in from every direction. Women silenced their chattering. Men turned toward the bimah. The rabbi read the sound, the man blew the shofar. And it was beautiful. The sound that I hear in my dreams, that powerful sound above all quietness that connects us all on these days of Awe. Silence and beauty. Silence and loudness. It's that sound of creation, bringing order through noise to the quiet.

So here I am, in the days of Awe, contemplating whether my face will clear up and stop itching in time for me to enjoy Shabbat and Yom Kippur. To really focus on the reason for the season (if I can say that, that is). We have friends, the illustrious @SusQHB and @RavTex coming up for the weekend, and I'm so stoked. I love sharing my community with others, because it's the most amazing community out there. I think this weekend was the most perfect example of the gift I've been given -- people cared enough to check on me, people ran to their respective houses to bring me medicine, people offered up their homes to me to rest in the afternoon, their beds to rest my swollen head, food to comfort me, and jokes and calm things to make me less worried. These people, this community of mine, is a family unlike any other that I've known. Eizeh mishpacha!?


Thus, 5770 came in with an interesting bang. They say that how you spend the days of Rosh Hashanah will define your year -- if you nap on RH, you'll have a sleepy year and the like. I have to hope, with all my heart, that this won't be a year of pain and suffering. I have to hope that rather, it will be a year of friendship, community, family, and connections. A realizing of my dream to be an Orthodox Jew in all halakic senses of the word. So may I be sealed, for all my efforts and passion, in the book of life. And may you all -- my extended family through blogging, Twittering, and many other avenues -- be sealed in the book of life for a healthy, happy, productive, and peaceful 5770!

Shanah Tovah + Ouch = No fun.

All I have to say is, stay tuned for a tale of horror, woe, hives, eyes swollen shut, and a lack of sleep.

Yes, I got really f'ing sick this weekend during Rosh Hashanah. Sick enough that half the congregations doctors were diagnosing me during Shacharit today.

No pictures. Let's just say I looked like this guy:

Except minus the blood. And that I am a woman. And I don't box. But other than that? Yeah.

Let's just hope this isn't an indication of the coming year ...

Another Reason to LOVE Barack Obama!

Shanah Tovah in 5770!

Last year, around this time, I wrote about how different my situation was from year's past. Last year, at Rosh Hashanah, I was starting anew. It seems that almost every year, for the past four years, I've been doing something different.

In 2005, I was living in Lincoln, Nebraska, finishing up my bachelor's in journalism at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. I was attending a Reform shul, and I was preparing for my then-imminent conversion. I was seeing someone long-distance, sleeping a lot, and coasting through my senior year. My Judaism was unspeakably important to me, but it was a very different Judaism.

In 2006, I was living in Washington D.C., working at The Washington Post as a copy editor on the Metro desk. I'd been hired on there after an amazing summer internship. I was dating a Jewish guy, lamenting my inability to have Fridays off, and feeling a little lost without a community or a sense of who I was. I was studying the weekly parshot at a bustling coffee shop, and I was expressing my Judaism through my blog and through d'varei Torah.

In 2007, I was living in Chicago, Illinois, working at the University of Chicago in the department of economics for a tyrannical professor. I was working 24 hours a day, seven days a week. I was dating my on-again, off-again boyfriend, eating decadently, and gearing up for what I thought would be an outstanding High Holiday season at a Reform shul in Chicago. I was still studying the weekly parshah, blogging, going to shul every Friday, and trying to figure out -- still -- where I fit in Judaism, and subsequently, who I was Jewishly.

In 2008, I was living in Storrs, Connecticut, starting my master's degree in Judaic studies at the University of Connecticut. I had just met a guy on JDate, was loving my classes, and at that point had realized that the only path for me was Orthodoxy and an Orthodox conversion. But those plans were on hold as I was living on campus, carless, and had yet to track down an Orthodox synagogue.

And now? In 2009? I'm in my second year of my master's program, still dating the same guy, still working on my Judaism (an endless and exciting process), and anticipating an Orthodox conversion in 5770. I'm unsure where I'll be at this point next year -- in a PhD program? Or maybe not? Living in West Hartford? Or maybe not?

Will I be Jewish? Always. Will I be learning? You betcha. Will I be in flux in my observance, assessing and reassessing how I live my live? Of course. It's the way I live my life. It's the Jewish way!

It's interesting to see how my Rosh Hashanah yearly posts have changed over the years, going all the way back to my days on Livejournal. I've definitely run the spectrum of Judaism, starting as a Reform Jew in Lincoln, Nebraska, and arriving as an Orthodox Jew in Connecticut. There's nowhere to go but up, up, and away in 5770!

So with that, a small reflection, I want to wish you all a Sweet and Happy New Year. Shanah Tovah, and may you have life, health, and happiness in the new year. May your families grow, your hearts be full, and your minds be at ease.

(Rosh Hashanah Day 1, Lunch Menu: Baked Macaroni and Cheese, Tzimmis, Mashed Sweet Potatoes, Honey-Spice Cake, Couscous, Salad, Chumus, and Challah. OH YEAH! Oh, and our new fruit? Kiwi!)

Benji Lovitt is THE MAN.

I thought about tacking this on to my last post (since it has a few videos in it) but opted to give it its own space right here. Benji Lovitt of What War Zone? and The Big Felafel traversed the streets of Tel Aviv to ask people about their Rosh Hashanah plans and to wish everyone a Shana Tova. Take a gander, it's amusing and sweet (badaching!).